


The Mighty Fall

by psychicdreams



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Pre-Romance, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-14
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-01-24 17:52:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1613981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychicdreams/pseuds/psychicdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John and Lestrade are kidnapped for revenge, Sherlock and Mycroft drop everything to deal with the situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-Sherlock/John, Pre-Mycroft/Lestrade

Sherlock took in the torn up flat with narrowed eyes, seeing the struggle as if it was playing out before him. John’s favorite chair was broken, the sofa on its back, and from a glance in the kitchen, he saw glass and porcelain littering the floor. His ‘laboratory’ had been destroyed, as well as John’s teapot and most of their dishes. His skull was on the floor, missing some of its teeth, their blinds were hanging by one side and there was an open laptop on the floor with the screen smashed by the heel of a heavy boot.

John had given it everything he had, but it was bad odds. He couldn’t fight three at once, clearly and by the blood on the corner of the coffee table, he’d been kicked and thrown off balance, slamming his forehead against the edge and had been knocked out.

Something about seeing the red around the room sent his own blood boiling and for a moment, he felt a consuming rage that threatened to crash his clear-headed thinking. John was _hurt_ and someone had _hurt him_. The men that had come had deliberately come to _take John_ and take him alive. They were merely unprepared for his flatmate’s viciousness and skill.

Sherlock’s fist clenched. He knew who had taken John and why. It had been revenge against him from a terrorist cell he had never even bothered remembering the name or purpose of. He had foiled a bomb attempt, handed over the information to Mycroft, and had watched as his brother had systematically destroyed the group.

“You’re slipping, Mycroft,” he hissed as he felt his brother’s presence behind him.

“Clearly I should not have trusted the men I assigned to the job,” was Mycroft’s grim reply. “I was assured that they had captured _all_ the people involved.”

“They _missed some_.”

“Obviously.”

He spun on his heel, but paused before stalking out to go find his flatmate. There was something in the way Mycroft held himself, the dark look in his eyes that promised incalculable pain on the person that had enraged him. His eyes were focused on the spot of John’s blood on the edge. He took in details of Mycroft’s appearance for clues. His clothes were perfect, as always, but there were stress lines around his mouth that said he was clenching his jaw. His hand was squeezing the top of his umbrella with just a bit more pressure than usual.

Sherlock knew that Mycroft liked John and what he brought to his younger brother, so he wasn’t surprised to find him there, but there was something not quite right. If it was just John, Mycroft would be calmer, knowing that he had to be, to keep Sherlock from doing exactly what stupid things he was about to. “Who else did they take?” he demanded, almost vibrating with the need to be out of the flat to dispense justice.

Mycroft’s eyes moved back to him and he reached into his pocket to pull out a small wallet. When it was opened to show a badge, Sherlock felt even more inflamed. Not only John, but Lestrade. Both were absolutely instrumental to Sherlock and he felt something squeeze his heart at the thought of two so very important people gone from his life. This was revenge against _him_ and while before Sherlock would have torn them apart for just going against him, this was not about because they had attacked him by proxy. It was because they had attacked John and Lestrade. If they had come at him directly, that was fine. He wouldn’t be as angry.

His brother’s lips were a thin line and he could see the same rage in his blue eyes. Mycroft wasn’t just angry on behalf of Sherlock; no matter what he said about caring not being an advantage, Mycroft had begun to with John and Lestrade because of his forced interactions thanks to their involvement in Sherlock’s life. With John for three years and Lestrade for longer, Mycroft had grown attached.

“First time you even noticed you were?” he asked, but there was no snideness in the question. It was just that: a question.

As if divining his thoughts, which Sherlock was not surprised about, Mycroft reluctantly nodded. “I was informed that there was a struggle in the Detective Inspector’s flat this morning.” He watched as Mycroft, better at controlling his emotions than anyone else, put a leash on his feelings. Suddenly his tight voice was calmer, but no less serious or grim. “They will not have had time to leave the country yet and I have put a temporary hold on all planes leaving.”

“I expect they’ll attempt to use them in some demand, an exchange. Them for us.”

“Of course. They know they couldn’t take us by force,” Mycroft replied and turned. Sherlock fell in perfect step with his brother as they stalked down the stairs. He was actually grateful that his kindly landlady had taken a vacation to her sister’s for the week or they might have taken her too.

Mycroft’s sleek black car was waiting, the engine running, for them outside. Sherlock studied the street briefly before climbing in the car. “They were taken in an old van with an oil leak,” he found himself saying even though he knew he didn’t need to. Mycroft would have noticed just as much as he that it had to have been a van and likely had some insignia on the side so it would pass notice as not something suspicious. If they were taking John, they likely posed as a mover’s van so if they carried sacks out, they wouldn’t be giving more than a passing glance. He was just used to saying deductions out loud now thanks to John.

Mycroft didn’t say anything, not a comment about how he didn’t need to. He was on his phone, staring grimly ahead as his foot rested near a long case in front of them. He clicked off the call without saying anything to the other person. “They’re in a warehouse near an airport.” He snapped the directions to his driver.

Sherlock grabbed a smaller case next to the larger one and opened it, not surprised to see a gun there. He yanked it out and grabbed the second clip, sticking it in his pocket. He knew that in the confines over the other case that Mycroft seemed to unconsciously toe with his shoe. Inside would be Mycroft’s custom sniper rifle, L11583. It had been tweaked over the years by his brother during his field days and after, leaving it probably one of the most powerful weapons in the world.

He hadn’t seen it leave Mycroft’s home in fifteen years.

“Lestrade is going to be so very disappointed in you,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the seriousness of the situation.

Mycroft’s eyebrow rose in a silent question.

“He abhors people that go in by themselves. You have no one following us.”

There was a snort. “They would only get in the way.”

“Naturally, but normal people don’t see it that way. He’ll lecture you.”

“I believe I can handle a lecture from the Detective Inspector.”

“Did you know his name is Greg?”

Mycroft blinked and finally looked at him. “…I was aware, yes.”

“You saw it in his file.”

“Of course. Why do you mention it?”

He fiddled with the gun in his hand, flicking the safety off, then on, then off again repeatedly. “It just occurred to me that I’ve never actually said his name. I didn’t even know it until we went to Baskerville.”

Silence descended, but it felt as if he was having all manner of conversations with Mycroft without saying anything. They were both aware now just how much of an impact the two men had made in their lives and it was not something that sat all that pleasantly with Sherlock. He couldn’t pull himself away, but now he was aware of just how much a weakness his attachment was. He understood why, for so long, Mycroft had held himself back from others. Long ago, thanks to his attachment to Sherlock, he had known just how much caring was not an advantage. Given his job, he couldn’t afford any and yet he had been unable to tear himself away from his brother. Now he had increased his weaknesses with non-blood relations that were even more vulnerable in some ways than Sherlock was.

The warehouse that was their destination came into view and Mycroft said, “Leave and return in an hour.” His tone of voice said he brooked no contradiction to his orders.

The car stopped and Mycroft reached forward, clicking the locks of the case on the floor and pulling out his weapon, leaving his umbrella behind. They shared a glance before rushing out of the car. Mycroft turned and headed around the back by silent agreement while Sherlock headed right through the front. The sleek black car pulled away from the curve and Sherlock released the safety for the final time before taking a deep breath to center himself. John was close. John was in there, injured.

There was no time to pick the lock so he shot through it and shoved the door open, running in and ducking behind a huge crate just as a few shots rang out and then stopped. “Sherlock?!”

John’s voice. It sounded hoarse and he pulled a mirror from his pocket, shifting it around the corner just a little to get a look. The two men were tied back to back and both looked awful. Blood had stained the side of John’s head from his encounter with the coffee table and he admired his partner that he was even conscious then. Lestrade’s head had snapped up at the sound of his name, peering in the darkness. He had a black eye and the way he favored his shoulder said he’d been shot in the arm and the bindings on them were aggravating that.

“All right, Holmes! Give it up!”

Sherlock’s eyes looked to the catwalk above, catching sight of Mycroft silently moving across it. He came up behind a man that had his gun ready, looking down below and trying to find him amid the junk in the warehouse. The man didn’t even know Mycroft was there and he surged up, snapping his neck and catching him before he fell and made any noise.

Their eyes met and Mycroft nodded silently as he crept forward, picking up his sniper rifle again and training it on one of the men holding a gun to John’s head. There was a second man focused on Lestrade and Sherlock waited. He had a gun for emergencies, but they both knew that he wouldn’t be using it as much. Both of them were relying on Mycroft’s incredible eyes and skill to take them out as he rushed to get to John and Lestrade. It had been fifteen years after all since the last time his brother had used his gun.

“Don’t move!” he shouted, knowing that Lestrade and John would obey his order without question right then.

The first shot sounded incredibly loud to Sherlock’s ears as he strained to hear it and he burst from his hiding spot, running forward. In merely a second, before the other could shoot Lestrade, a second headshot had taken him out. Someone was aiming his gun at him, but he was killed before he could pull the trigger and Sherlock didn’t slow. Mycroft took out another and he lifted his own gun to shoot another that was going straight for John.

One man had forgone using his gun and attempted to tackle Sherlock, but he slithered out of the way and spun, slamming his gun right into face. It snapped the man’s head to the side and a shot from above finished him.  There was a pause in the raining bullets as Mycroft literally ran forward to a new position, the new battlefield positioning making it impossible for him to get a clear shot where he’d been.

Sherlock dove between someone and Lestrade, kicking at a kneecap. He struggled with him as the man’s hand gripped his gun. Abruptly he let go and slammed his elbow in the terrorist’s stomach. He grabbed the gun from suddenly lax fingers and shot him in the chest.

It took very few seconds, and Sherlock paused, panting, as he looked around. No one else was around and he immediately turned and dropped to his knees to remove the bindings. He could hear Mycroft’s shoes above him on the metal catwalk as he quickly made his way down some stairs and into the warehouse proper. He wasted no time in hurrying to the hostages, just as Sherlock got them apart.

“Sherlock! What are doing here?!”

“I should think that would be obvious, John,” he said as he removed the individual bindings around their wrists and ankles.

“Didn’t you bring any backup?!” Lestrade demanded, groaning and gripping his shoulder.

“They’d only get in the way,” he groused.

All four men heard the sound of something shift. Sherlock stiffened and turned around quickly, but Mycroft beat him to it, slamming the butt of his sniper into the man’s gut that had come up behind him, followed by a punch to the jaw, and finally another neck snapping. His movements were economized, perfect, and John and Lestrade gaped. Apparently they hadn’t been aware that his brother had had physical combat training.

“Wow,” Lestrade muttered.

“Show off,” Sherlock muttered, but he would never admit that he was proud of Mycroft. The man hadn’t lost his touch.

As John wavered to his feet and Sherlock hurriedly reached out to support him before he fell, Mycroft pulled out his phone and pressed a few buttons. “Now.” It was as short a conversation as Mycroft was capable of having and he hung up after. The phone went right back into his pocket and he reached out with the hand not holding his sniper to help Lestrade up, wrapping his arm around his waist to steady him.

“Who’d you call?” the detective asked, squeezing his now sluggishly bleeding shoulder.

“My PA. The ambulance will be here momentarily, as well as Scotland Yard and my people. That reminds me, I will have to have certain people fired for their critical mistakes.”

“What mistakes?” John asked, leaning heavily against Sherlock. He honestly didn’t mind supporting his flatmate, for reasons he was deliberately not thinking about right then.

“Our last case, with that terrorist cell. I gave all the information to Mycroft.” He glared at his brother. “Who apparently was incompetent at dealing with them.”

The return glare was blistering in its heat and anger. “Sherlock, did you expect me to hunt every one of them down myself? I gave it to people that I trusted would do the job; apparently they were inadequate to the task.”

He blinked. That was the closest to an admission of mistake and apology that Mycroft would ever give. That tight leash on his brother’s emotions was slipping a bit as he watched, but it was tightened again fiercely so he didn’t lose control.

“Shit, I’ll probably have to go to the hospital for this,” Lestrade muttered, letting Mycroft have most of his weight. Mycroft shifted his legs to compensate, but remained silent about it. “I expect to see you three there with presents, balloons, and flowers.”

Sherlock blinked. “What?”

Lestrade grinned wearily. “It’s custom, Sherlock. Someone’s in the hospital, you bring ‘em presents, get well balloons, and flowers.”

He shared a bewildered look with Mycroft before shrugging, the sound of the ambulance getting closer. People.

\--

“You know…I didn’t mean to buy the whole store,” Lestrade said with a much brighter grin from his hospital bed. John was snickering from the bed next to him. The paramedics had insisted that John go as well to check out his injuries and it turned out he had a few cracked ribs to go with a concussion.

“They always go overboard,” John agreed, but he seemed in good spirits.

The entire room had been filled to the brim with flowers and balloons, ninety-percent of them from the Holmes brothers. Sherlock found himself meeting Mycroft’s eyes as they stood there in the hospital room and he shrugged. “It was Mycroft. He bought them.”

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. “I distinctly remember that you were there with me and chose half of them.”

“Clearly your memory is going in your old age.”

Before it could dissolve into an argument, Lestrade intervened. “Hey, I’m honored.” He reached out and grabbed one of the balloon strings tied to a drawer’s handle, tugging it down and up, making it bop in the air. His smile faded just a bit. “But seriously, thanks, for coming for us. I mean, I’m not going to thank you two for going rogue and coming in alone, that was just _stupid_ , but—”

“As was stated before, others would merely get in the way,” Mycroft interrupted, flicking some imaginary dirt off his jacket. His umbrella was firmly in his hand and he seemed as at ease as he had been before, but Sherlock knew that that wasn’t entirely correct. The importance of Gregory Lestrade and John Watson had been made clear to both Holmes men and it was unsettling.

“Don’t start that—”

“Greg, just leave it for now,” John said, even though Sherlock knew from virtue of a ton of arguments with his flatmate that the doctor completely agreed with the detective.

Sherlock finally dropped down to sit in a chair placed between the two beds and lifted his long legs, bracing his heels on top of the small table sitting there, ignoring the disapproving look from his friend. “I told you, Mycroft. Lestrade has a twenty minute lecture ready.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and turned. “Well I have work. I will take care of the arrangements with the hospital and the police.”

As his brother’s hand reached the doorknob, John’s voice lanced out. “Mycroft, stay and visit.”

“Yeah, you don’t have to leave yet,” Lestrade seconded.

Sherlock watched the emotions flash through Mycroft’s eyes. He had a job to do, he was always busy, and there was a lot of business he had to deal with over the whole situation. Furthermore, it wouldn’t be wise to stay. Their attachment to the two men in the hospital was already too much; to stay would mean to deepen that. Sherlock himself knew that, but he already knew that he’d not be able to tear himself away from John now. He didn’t bother fighting it.

Mycroft had more resistance and control than his younger brother and arguably had the most to lose. He watched closely because he had never seen Mycroft give in on anything; the man had kept himself from relationships of any kind, friendship and romantic, for almost twenty years and had only allowed himself to do anything motivated by emotions for his little brother. He had kept himself superior over Sherlock, said to never get involved and was _proud_ of that. Sherlock was by far the more honest of the two of them because at least he admitted, to himself at least, that he couldn’t leave his friends.

Finally the hand left the doorknob and he smirked as Mycroft sighed. “Very well. I suppose I can spend a few minutes here.”

“Great!” Lestrade ignored his shoulder and reached out for a nearby chair, awkwardly tugging it closer to the bed. Mycroft took the hint and finished moving it himself, sitting down as if the metal chair was the wingback chair in his favorite club.

“What are you smiling at, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked with a suspicious glance and a frown.

Sherlock smirked even wider and said, “How the mighty fall.” The irony that that included himself was not lost on either of the Holmes brothers.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but said, “True.”


	2. Chapter 2

Lestrade tried to be quiet so he didn’t wake John next to him. He just couldn’t sleep, never did in hospitals. They brought back too many unpleasant memories for him. His eyes seemed pinned to the ceiling and he could hear the clock ticking. His fingers itched to have his mobile or, in fact, anything. He was just about to give up and wake John regardless, to give himself some distraction, when the door opened a crack.

“Detective Inspector? Why are you awake?”

He blinked and looked over, stunned at seeing Mycroft standing in the barely open doorway. “Mr. Holmes?”

“Mycroft, please. Why are you still awake?”

“I don’t sleep in hospitals. What are you doing here?”

There was a complicated look on Mycroft’s face that he couldn’t decipher. “After your kidnappings, I thought I could not leave anything to chance and decided to see for myself that you both remained unharmed and accounted for.”

“Wow, you really don’t trust your own people anymore.”

“Not after what happened, no,” he replied and there was something dark in his voice that sent a shiver down his spine. While he had known Mycroft for years and that he was powerful, he had never _felt_ that power intimidate him before now.

“Come in, talk to me,” Greg tried.

“I’m afraid I can’t. It isn’t visiting hours and I do have work.”

“It’s midnight.”

“When has work ever obeyed because it is midnight?”

“Then answer me a question before you go.”

A devastatingly elegant ginger eyebrow rose. “And what is that?”

“Where’d you learn to use a sniper rifle? You were a damn good shot.”

“One should never remain out of practice.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“No, Detective Inspector, I didn’t.”

“You can call me Greg,” he said, sounding like a broken record. For five years he’d been telling Mycroft that, but he had never once bent.

This time, something about what had happened changed because Mycroft nodded. “Very well, if you continue to insist.”

He grinned. “You know, for someone who says he hates legwork, you’re good at hand to hand combat.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Go to sleep, Gregory. You and John will be released in the morning, I’m assured.”

“I’ll try, but no promises.”

Mycroft eyed him once more before he closed the door, the darkness enclosing him once more. Much to his surprise, he did actually sleep.

-0-

John grinned as he stepped into the flat. Sherlock had cleaned while he’d been in the hospital, and he hadn’t just righted the furniture, but put things away. On the coffee table was his laptop, which he clearly remembered having been smashed in the fighting. He raised an eyebrow and Sherlock shrugged, as if it was no big deal, saying, “I had it fixed.”

Yet he could see in his flatmate’s eyes the waiting, the expectation there, and he gave it to him. “Thanks, Sherlock. I thought I’d have to get a new one. Really.”

Sherlock just nodded and headed to the kitchen. John tried to keep the rubbing of his bruised chest surreptitious. The hospital could fix a lot, but bruising and all around soreness was something that just had to disappear on its own. Carefully he settled in his chair and leaned back with a sigh. It was quiet, a rarity.

“John.”

He opened his eyes to see a cup shoved in front of his face and he took it. “Tea?” He sipped at it and smiled. “Why am I not surprised you know how I like my tea?”

He thought that they would sit in silence for a bit, but instead, Sherlock dropped to his knees and without warning, yanked up his shirt. “What the hell are you doing?!” he demanded, forcing himself to quell any movement he might have made in his shock so he didn’t spill the hot tea over himself and make his injuries worse.

“You were clutching at your chest.”

“It’s _sore_.” He hissed a little as Sherlock nudged the bruises around his ribs. “Stop poking me!” As if in apology, the poking stopped, but the hands remained there. “Sherlock?”

“…I’m sorry.”

Those were not words he had ever expected to hear out of the genius but abrasive detective. “What?”

“I’m sorry, John. I shouldn’t have taken that case from Mycroft.”

“Wait, wait. You think what happened is your fault?”

Gray blue eyes looked up at him. “Of course it is, John. They couldn’t get to me or Mycroft directly, so they took you both instead.” Sherlock stood up and paced, and John took the moment to yank down his shirt. “This hasn’t been a problem before; I wasn’t expecting…” He grimaced.

His tea forgotten in his hand, John leaned forward a little. “Why would they take us if they couldn’t get to either of you directly?”

“Because you’ve become a weakness to me, John.” The tone was of that annoyance, that ‘why can’t you see that’, but Sherlock’s eyes were serious as they met his, almost drilling him into the seat. He could see the mental power there, the control…and the self-castigation. “I never really cared before, about anyone, until now. Well…maybe Mycroft,” he added grudgingly. “They took you because you and Lestrade are…important to me. To us.”

For a second, he didn’t respond. He didn’t know how to. It was probably the first time that Sherlock had ever said just how much their friendship had meant to him. “So…what you meant in the hospital, the ‘how the mighty fall’… You meant that you two, as the mightiest people in Britain, were ‘gotten to’ because of us.” He couldn’t help the mutter, “And if considering yourself ‘the mightiest people in Britain’ isn’t narcissistic, I don’t know what is.”

“It’s not narcissistic, it’s fact, John.”

“Let’s move on from the fact that it’s _completely_ narcissistic and you just don’t want to admit it,” he said, grinning just a little to himself at Sherlock’s annoyed pout, “to even how they knew that we were your ‘weaknesses’.”

“Unfortunately, I think it’s terribly obvious if someone is _paying attention_. You have become someone of great importance to me and I would have thought you’d noticed after the pool.”

John shifted a little. They didn’t talk about when they’d run home after Moriarty had left, how they’d collapsed onto the sofa only for Sherlock to drape himself over him, listening to his heartbeat until they had both fallen asleep. It had been a very…ambiguous moment that they had never once broached. Sherlock, in the morning, had pretended it didn’t happen, so he hadn’t asked anything.

“You never brought it up again.”

“At the time, I was still attempting to reason with myself that it was the adrenaline, but the truth of it is that it was fear. The only person I’d ever been close to, if you can call it that, was Mycroft and there was no danger with him. He was always too powerful to be touched.”

“Was?”

There was no answer to that, but John thought that he knew the answer. Just how terrifying would it be for these Holmes men, with intellects that surpassed the greats, to realize that they were just as much a slave to emotions as the rest of humanity? It may have only happened with one or two people, but that didn’t change the fact that it happened to them.

John set his tea down and stood up. “So what are you going to do about it?”

Sherlock blinked. “What?”

“Well you’ve got a problem, Sherlock. According to you, I’m your weakness and they’ll use me to get to you. You don’t want that, but you can’t stop me from keeping on doing what I’m doing unless you ask me to leave. So you have two choices: You ask me to leave, or you realize that we both have a weakness for each other.”

The detective watched him closely before he nodded. “I won’t ask you to leave.” Sherlock’s hand lifted, but fell back down before he did whatever he had thought of doing.

“So...” His eyebrow rose. “Mycroft.”

There was a sound of disgust. “What about him?”

“He has a weakness to me and Greg too?”

“Yes. You are his weakness because you’re mine. As for Lestrade… They’ve been united in their desire to harass me for years, so I expect it’s partial respect and partial lust.”

“ _Lust_?”

“Yes. Mycroft’s been eying Lestrade’s rear a few too many years. Of course Mycroft has been too stupid to see that Lestrade has been staring at _him_ since the moment they met. If he’d so much as wink, Lestrade would probably strip for him in an instant.”

John couldn’t help but wonder how they’d managed to get to this part of the conversation. He had never considered Mycroft in a relationship with anyone. In fact, he didn’t think he could imagine either one of them in a relationship. Holmes had become synonymous with asexual to him because for as long as he’d known Sherlock, he didn’t think he’d ever seen one hint of interest romantically or physically in anyone. Sure there had been Irene Adler, but that had always seemed more mental than physical.

John leaned back in his chair and went back to sipping the tea that Sherlock had made for him. He watched as Sherlock reached for his violin and began to play, his back to his flatmate. It was the only sound in the flat and it was quiet, more like a slightly sad serenade. John could almost imagine that it was trying to tell him something, but… “I’ve never heard that one before,” he commented quietly.

The sound paused for a moment. “I made it last night while you were in the hospital.”

“What? You made it? Didn’t you sleep?”

Sherlock went back to playing and he knew the answer to that question. Of course the detective hadn’t slept. It was difficult enough to get him to sleep at the best of times; it would have been out of the question with John in the hospital. He settled a little deeper into the chair, sipping at his tea and allowing his eyes to close.

When he woke up next, his internal clock said it was night. He shifted, blinking when he felt the weight of arms around him, clutching at him. John looked over his shoulder at his flatmate. Apparently Sherlock had moved them to his bedroom, a place John was rarely in, and had clambered in after. There was no way to extricate himself out of the arms and legs that locked around him. The man was out like a light, breathing even in sleep, but one hand was resting with its palm flat against his chest right over his heart.

Weakness. John smiled just a little at the reassurance that Sherlock needed that he was still alive and knowing just how he felt from that violin piece earlier, he allowed himself to be cuddled. It wasn’t so bad, having a weakness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn’t realized I’d already made a good start on this part 2. I might turn it into a four-parter.


	3. Chapter 3

Lestrade tilted his head as he watched the two silently dance around each other, silently rubbing his shoulder where he’d been shot. Something had changed in the past two days since he and John were kidnapped. They weren’t saying anything about it, trying to act as normal, but Sherlock seemed to be hovering a bit. Was it because of his injuries? Every time John so much as flinched, or his jaw tightened a little, the detective was right there, dropping whatever he was saying in favor of trying to tell the actual doctor how to help himself. Rather than get annoyed, John would just smile in fond amusement and do as he said.

“I think they’re going to force me to go back to the dentist.”

He blinked at the sudden voice and turned when Mycroft entered the morgue, eyes on his brother and his friend. “What?”

“He’s so… _attentive_. Mummy says it’s sweet, and if it is, it shall surely give me a cavity.”

As if that one word had caught Sherlock’s ear, the man spun. “You _didn’t_ tell Mummy.” The elder Holmes raised his eyebrows and had an expression that seemed to silently say, ‘Tell her what?’ “You _didn’t_.”

“Of course I did, Sherlock. She was quite pleased to hear of your…attachment.” Mycroft smiled a little. “She wants to meet John.”

“Just _what_ did you tell her that would make her want to meet him?!”

“Oh, nothing untrue, I assure you.”

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose and interrupted before Sherlock could go on a tirade, “The _body_ , Sherlock.”

“Don’t bother me with such trivial things when it’s obvious the governor did it. That’s why Mycroft’s _here_.”

He choked a bit. “The _governor_?”

“I’m afraid so,” Mycroft agreed, handing Greg a file folder he hadn’t noticed. “He’s been quietly investigated for a few months on corruption charges. This man here was his assistant and had been working with us to find evidence.”

“And he got caught?”

“It appears so.”

“Shit.” He flipped through the folder, quickly reading the contents. “You’re not taking over the case?”

“I’m completely trust your judgment, Detective Inspector. There is no need. However, if you don’t mind, I would prefer to wait in your office until after you have arrested and incarcerated the suspect.”

Greg eyed him, but nodded. “Yeah, sure, go ahead.”

Mycroft turned, but paused, looking over his shoulder. “And Sherlock? Do try to not make it terribly obvious that you’ve slept with your flatmate.”

Molly and Greg spun to look at the detective once the older Holmes was gone and John had turned quite a rosy red. “It’s…not like that,” the doctor muttered. “When he meant sleep, he meant sleep. I fell asleep on the chair the other day and he carried me to bed. That’s all.”

“And just happened to fall asleep next to you?” Lestrade asked.

“…Yes.”

He wasn’t buying it, but he couldn’t fight the grin that formed. It was about damn time. It was clear that Sherlock, regardless of how he might view it, was head over heels for John and vice versa, but they were just often too stubborn to acknowledge it. Looks like he’d be winning the betting pool, because Greg had been the only one to insist that Sherlock would break eventually and John would never say no. It was just a matter of time now.

“Stop smiling, Lestrade, it’s unpleasant. And stop thinking too, while you’re at it, you’re lowering the IQ in the whole room.”

He wasn’t upset at the insults, because he could see by the way Sherlock moved, that wasn’t looking at him, that he was embarrassed. Sherlock. Embarrassed. No one that had an older sibling that just outted a deep relationship could remain unaffected. Greg had learned that when his older brother Will had announced at the dinner table about his first boyfriend.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said, crossing his arms.

“You don’t have to.” Now he was given a sharp look. “You especially have no reason to feel smug or amused.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are within days of being stripped by Mycroft.”

This time when he choked, it was in shock. “What?!”

Sherlock’s grin was smug as he began to shuffle John out of the room. “It’s _obvious_ by how he stares at your ass that he wants you. Why not make a preemptive strike? Catch him off guard?”

He hesitated. “You’re…sure he…”

“Of course.”

Well, Sherlock was very rarely wrong and there was no harm…right? If he was wrong, the only casualty would be his pride. And his working relationship with Mycroft. He chewed on his lip and thanked Molly, who was staring at him in a sympathetic way as if to say ‘I know what it’s like to want a Holmes and know you can’t have him’.

And maybe that was true. How the hell could he ever be good enough for Mycroft? Much like Sherlock and Molly, Mycroft was way out of his league. He wasn’t like John, who had somehow transcended everything to be coming Sherlock’s equal; he had nothing to really offer Mycroft. He paused, sending Donovan out to arrest the governor, and then headed to his office with his feet feeling like lead.

Mycroft looked up from his phone from where he sat in one of Greg’s office chairs, one leg over the other. With his impeccable blue suit, umbrella leaning against the arm, and the way he held himself, it was as if he were sitting in a throne. King Mycroft… It suited him, and made Greg even surer that even if Sherlock was telling the truth, it didn’t really matter. A frown touched those kissable lips. “You’re upset, Gregory. What is it?”

“It’s…nothing. Just Sherlock.”

The frown intensified, as if the idea that Sherlock had upset Greg had angered him. “What happened?”

Lestrade debated what to say, but decided to be blunt. He leaned back in his chair, took a deep breath, and plunged in. “He said that you wanted me.”

There was silence in the room as Mycroft looked at him for a long moment before sliding his phone back into his jacket and then interlacing his fingers in his lap. “Sherlock is, of course, not wrong.”

“…I almost hoped he was.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose to his hair line, as if that was not the response he was expecting. “Why?”

“Because it makes it harder to bear.” Greg leaned forward and braced his arms on his desk unconsciously, the way he usually did when he had serious news to say to the other person. “I’m…happy, don’t get me wrong. I’ve been attracted to you for years and I’d jump at the chance to have something…more, but it won’t work. I’ve got nothing to offer you, Mycroft. Nothing.”

It was probably the first time that he had ever seen Mycroft _flabbergasted_. “…What?”

“Think about it, Mycroft. What do I have? I’m an older detective inspector that’s reached his peak, he’s not going anywhere else. I can’t do half of what you can do in your job and I’m _not_ as…elegant as you. You’re a real gentleman, one who’s surprisingly… What do you need me for, Mycroft? You’ve got all the skills to take care of yourself in the field, you’ve got all the resources so you don’t _have to_ , and you’ve got all the looks a guy could want.”

Mycroft’s eyes were boring into him. The stunned look had faded as he talked to be replaced with an intensity that was a tad overwhelming. He was used to that look on Sherlock, not Mycroft. “Is that what you really think?”

“There’s no chance for a relationship, Mycroft. You’re out of my league and you’d be _settling_ for me.”

“Is this you talking or your ex-wife?”

“It’s _reality_ talking.”

Suddenly those illegally long fingers reached into his pocket to pull out a small notebook and a pen. “Then I shall have to change reality.”

Greg couldn’t help but laugh at that. “Even you aren’t that powerful, Mycroft. You can’t do everything.”

Those pale blue eyes flickered to him. “For you, Gregory, I would do anything.”

He shifted at the warmth those words gave him. “Mycroft—”

Mycroft ripped the paper from the notepad and put it on the desk, saying, “You seem to be failing to understand, Detective Inspector. All of those traits you listed about me mean nothing on their own. The power you suggest that is out of your control is in fact, completely in your control, because you have but to ask me and I will use all in my power to give you what you want.”

“Even if I asked you to betray England?”

“No, because you would never ask that. Now,” Mycroft slipped the notebook back into his pocket and stood up, “be at that restaurant at seven.”

Greg frowned, looking at the address. “Mycroft, I don’t know if I can get out of here at seven and I just explained—”

“I will clear your schedule. I expect you there so we can correct this notion that you are undeserving of me.” A soft smile came to his face then. “If anything, it is the other way around.”

“Mycroft—”

“See you there, Detective Inspector.”

Then he was gone.

-0-

Greg had honestly struggled with himself about going. True to his word, his schedule had been cleared in time, so he’d have no excuse, but this was really a bad idea and yet… There was no way that he could ever stand Mycroft up. Never. So he parked his car outside of a restaurant that just screamed money. He’d never be able to afford this place. Anthea was waiting next to the door, tapping away on her phone, and said, “He’s expecting you.”

“Not on my salary—”

“I’ve been told to reassure you that you don’t need to worry about that. I’ll take your coat.”

Greg frowned as he handed over his coat, being careful as he worked his arm out of it so he didn’t jostle it too much. He wasn’t sure if he should be upset or not, but decided probably not. All their lunches in the past they’d had as they talked over cases and Sherlock had been paid for by Mycroft, so this wasn’t really all that different, was it? No, best just to think of this like a lunch date…only much later. Knowing he wasn’t exactly dressed for his, he didn’t even have a tie on, he squared his shoulders and entered, bracing himself for the stares.

Only to find there were none. The entire restaurant was empty. Only one table was in the entire room, in the very center. The lighting was low, set for a very intimate dinner, and set off the soothing colors of the restaurant. The chairs looked plush and comfortable enough to sleep in, even from here, and he’d bet his life on the fact that the cutlery was silver or near enough.

Then there was _Mycroft Holmes_. If the place was beautiful, then he made it shabby in comparison. He had changed his suit from a blue to a black pin-stripe with Greg’s favorite red tie, though he’d never tell him that. It set off the gold cufflinks and pocket watch he wore. To make him even more devastating in his looks, the outer jacket was unbuttoned, one hand in his pants pocket, the picture of confidence. His umbrella was missing and he was standing beside one of the chairs, his back perfectly straight. “Gregory.”

“…What…is this?” he muttered, trying to take it all in again with a second look. He found his feet moving forward of their own accord. Mycroft moved, hands going to the chair he’d stood beside and pulled it out for him. Frankly, Greg was too stunned to argue and just dropped down in it.

“It is our first date, Gregory.” He watched as Mycroft moved to his own chair opposite him and sat down with an elegance to be envied. “Would you like a menu or would you prefer I order?”

He struggled not to start a sentence with a long ‘uh’. There didn’t appear to be anyone else in the room, but he’d learned not to take anything for granted with Mycroft Holmes. “I trust you and I’m kind of out of my element here.” He eyed Mycroft as the man raised his hand and gestured. A waiter seemed to melt out of the shadows on the edges of the room. They spoke in another language briefly and the man disappeared back where he came. “I think you went overboard on this…”

“I don’t believe so. I’m doing this to prove a point.”

“What point? That you’re so much more powerful and wealthy than me?”

Wine was brought to their table and Mycroft tasted it briefly before nodding. Suddenly two glasses were being poured and then they were alone again. “No, Gregory. The point is that all of this power and wealth is being used for your benefit. I’m willing to pamper you, if you want me to. I’m willing to avoid doing things like this if it makes you uncomfortable. All you have to do is tell me.” There was that soft smile again. “Though I must admit that I indulged myself tonight. I have always wanted to do this with you.”

“Why? What do you like about me?”

“Your honesty,” Mycroft said promptly. “Your loyalty is unquestionable and I have never met a man I admire more. Your work is exemplary and far more appreciated than my own. What I do, most would find repugnant. Half of what I do, there is no real pride to be had with it. That isn’t to say that I don’t like what I do and some things I have done I have a lot of pleasure in doing, but there are dirtier aspects of my work that I dislike. I also find your presence soothing and you occupy my thoughts as much as Sherlock does. Physically, I find you more desirable than I can say in public and were you uninjured, I can’t guarantee that I would allow you to return home tonight.”

“Wow, that’s…a load of compliments there.” Before he could say any more, their food was brought over by the silent waiter and it was mouthwatering in how good it looked. Mycroft had taste, he had to give him that.

“They’re quite warranted, I assure you.”

He focused on eating for a bit, waiting until they were almost finished before he picked up their conversation. There was nothing wrong with the silence and it wasn’t forced. Mycroft seemed to relax into it, leaning back in his chair once he’d finished.

“So…what do you want from me? I mean, is it just…sex?”

“If I wanted just sex, Gregory, I could find it anywhere.”

Why couldn’t Mycroft just come out and say it? “Then you want a relationship.” Mycroft tilted his head in silent agreement. “You won’t regret your decision?”

He watched in surprise as suddenly the elder Holmes stood up and walked around the table. His presence seemed larger than life all of a sudden and he blinked when the man leaned down and kissed him. It was like a burst of fireworks behind his eyes and he hadn’t felt this since the first time he’d kissed his ex-wife twenty years ago. A soft sound escaped him and fingers twined in his hair, tilting his head just right and ohh, that tongue was _delightful_. There was a gentle nip on the bottom of his lip as Mycroft pulled away, leaving Greg breathless.

“Any more questions, Gregory?”

“No, sir,” he whispered, seeing the flash behind those blue eyes.

“Injured, Gregory. Do not tempt me while you’re injured.”

He couldn’t help but grin as he realized that he had found something that turned Mycroft on. “Yes, sir. No tempting, sir,” he teased quietly, wrapping the man’s tie around his hand and tugging him a little closer.

Mycroft growled and kissed him again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I have managed, barely, to keep this rating the same and not write smut with the two of them. Hooray for me? It's not my fault that these four are so smut-tastic.

Sherlock watched silently from across the street as Lestrade pulled Mycroft closer again by his tie. Their kiss was clearly heated and by the way his brother held the man’s head, he was barely restraining himself. It was only when Lestrade winced a bit when he leaned in that Mycroft pulled away completely and returned to his seat. He wasn’t sure what Mycroft said, but Lestrade was laughing at it then.

“You okay?”

He blinked, turning to look at John, who had stood at his side during his silent vigil of the pair’s dinner. Anthea knew he was there of course, but she couldn’t care less and he didn’t bother to hide himself from her, or in fact either one of the participants. They were just so lost in their world that they didn’t notice him.

It was the first time that he could recall Mycroft actually dating someone. He thought there might have been someone when Sherlock was around seven, but he had never managed to ferret out for sure whether that was true. He hadn’t been as good at deductions back then as he was now. He did know that he had never quite seen that look of happiness and contentment on his face as he did now.

“It was about time,” he said with a shrug as he turned and headed back to their apartment on foot.

“What?”

How could he explain it to John? Sherlock had learned since the man moved in what it felt like, that…contentment. It had crept up on him until one day he’d turned and found an entire section of his mind palace devoted just to John and their interactions. He remembered the one night in startling clarity the first time John had forced him to do what he called ‘movie night’ and somehow, he wasn’t sure how, his flatmate had ended up with his head in his lap, softly snoring away. It was the first time Sherlock had noticed anything different in his mind palace. His fingers had seemed to move without his permission to stroke through the man’s hair and despite the absurdity of the movie, he had been…content. It was not a feeling that Sherlock was used to. It wasn’t in his _nature_ to be content, but all had been quiet in his mind.

He led the way upstairs, John patiently waiting for his answer. Sherlock threw his coat and scarf off onto the nearby chair, not caring to put it away right then. He slid his hands into his pockets, pursing his lips together and watching the dark street outside the window for a moment before turning to his flatmate. John had hung up his own coat and had gone and grabbed Sherlock’s, making sure it was where it was supposed to be.

“I don’t know what it’s like in ‘normal’ people’s minds, but for Mycroft and me, it’s a never-ending stream of information and noise. We see things that can be done better, can be seen as clear as day to us and grow frustrated with those around us. So when I say that Lestrade makes Mycroft content, understand what that means. We’re _never_ content. The world is boring and broken and there’s always something to fix. There was never a point where we can just exist in a moment and feel nothing. Lestrade brings that now to Mycroft. Now, with him, he can be _content_ in their moments. There can be moments in his life where the noises cease, where we don’t see things to ‘fix’. It’s so rare that we’d be likely to go to the ends of the earth to keep it. It’s never happened to Mycroft before.”

“So…contentment is your happiness then?”

He blinked. “I suppose.”

John walked a little closer to him. “You said ‘was’ and ‘we’.”

“What?” He knew what John was asking, but he just wanted to stall a bit more, so he could avoid saying just how deep his attachment went.

“You said there _was_ never a point where _we_ could just exist in a moment.” Trust John to never drop an issue. “So that means that you have moments you’re content.”

Sherlock didn’t meet John’s searching gaze immediately; instead it flickered around as he tried to think of the best way to answer the unasked question. “I have, lately.”

“Is it a person too?”

“Yes.”

“Someone I know?”

“Very well.”

His flatmate came closer to him then, almost standing in his space, but they weren’t touching. The knowledge was clear in John’s eyes; he knew. “Is it me? Do I make you content?”

“At times,” he downplayed, but unfortunately John knew him too well to make that work on him.

“Then does that mean I can get away with a lot more than anyone else with you?”

His eyes narrowed as he tried to read what John meant and what he might do with that cheeky question. “Unfortunately yes.”

John was openly grinning now and Sherlock cursed his absolute fascination with his flatmate. Every other human he could predict, but John always managed to surprise him. Sure there were certain things that he knew what he was going to do with certainty, but not always. Hands reached up and abruptly grabbed onto his jacket, yanking him forward. Their lips landed together with a crash and it was… It was _heavenly_. All noise ceased completely and Sherlock couldn’t help but pick up John and push him to sit on the desk and not care that it knocked all his books and skull on the floor.

It was passion, fierce and unrestrained, yet he felt that quiet of being at the eye of a storm. Legs latched around Sherlock’s slimmer waist and he heard thumping as John toed off his shoes and let them drop. It was delightful, perfect and—the sound of pain when he touched his partner’s chest brought reality crashing down. It had only been days since John’s ordeal and the bruises and ribs hadn’t fully healed. He pulled back, only to grunt as John followed him, refusing to let them part. It actually took Sherlock prying their lips apart and gripping his shoulders to keep him from swooping back in.

“Sherlock, I’m not made of glass,” John muttered, squeezing his legs and bringing their hips flush.

“Did you forget that you had several cracked ribs and a concussion two days ago?”

“I’m the doctor here.”

“And one who is an impressively _bad_ patient. Is that a trait all doctors share?”

John rolled his eyes. “Sherlock, I’m _fine_ , really.”

“Your chest, which is still black and blue by the way, would beg to differ.” He leaned in and kissed, sucking a dark bruise on the side of his partner’s neck, and there was a full body shudder rocking John when he did it. Oh, he liked that, liked the feeling of making John shiver and whimper. “I promise, when you’re better, I’ll give you all you want and more.”

“Fine,” he felt more than heard John mutter. “I swear I’m holding you to that. It’d better be worth the wait.”

Sherlock gave a toothy, predatory grin. “Oh, it will be. Your screams will attest to that.”

“I do _not_ scream, Sherlock.”

“We’ll see.”

“Stop being smug. I don’t.”

He made a noise of disbelief that only annoyed John further and stepped away. He was feeling particularly pleased about the new turn of events and didn’t even bother to hide the satisfaction in his walk.

-0-

“All right, this is has got to stop,” John protested weakly, arching his head back and letting out a soft gasp as Sherlock marked his neck again. Every day he had been unable to resist, always keeping that bruise, too high to hide with a collar. He had never imagined himself being that possessive before, but he couldn’t stop himself from sidling up to his partner’s back and kissing that spot until a mark appeared.

“Hmm?” he hummed, leaving gentle touches of his lips behind as he admired his handiwork.

“You do realize I _work_ , Sherlock, right? For the past three days, everyone’s constantly staring at my neck and there’s nothing I can use to cover it except a bandage and that would be too suspicious.”

Sherlock stepped back and leaned against the table in the kitchen as John turned from the dinner he was making. “I see nothing wrong with making it clear who you belong to.”

“I don’t _belong_ to you, Sherlock!”

“You’re getting a bit uptight lately.”

“Maybe that’s because I’m sexually frustrated since you keep arousing me and refusing to do anything!” he all but yelled.

The truth was, Sherlock was rather enjoying the sexually frustrated John. The more he increased the anticipation of the event, the more he would enjoy it when he allowed it. His favorite part was riling John up and soothing him back down. He reached out, tugging his partner forward and giving him soft kisses on his lips. “Tomorrow, John. You should be fine enough tomorrow so that I can fulfill my promise.”

The gentle kissing and his hands stroking up and down his partner’s back had the intended effect and John melted against his chest. “I know what you’re doing, you know.”

“You don’t seem to be objecting.”

“Would it do any good?” John retorted, but there was no heat in it. Instead, if he’d been a cat, he would have been purring.

“Shall I make it up to you?”

John eyed him. “How?”

“I love you.”

The words made John’s head snap up and Sherlock calmly met those widened eyes. Clearly his partner had believed Sherlock would never say those words and it was true that he rarely made any kind of emotional statement, much less those words…but John deserved them.

Without warning, John reached behind him to turn off the burner and with his other hand, he grabbed Sherlock, pulling him to the sofa. He grunted as he was almost tossed onto it and his partner straddling his lap in almost the same instant. “John?”

“You, me, extended snogging session. Now.”

Sherlock laughed. Yes, he was content.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this based on the chorus of the song Fall Out Boy – The Mighty Fall. As I listened to it, I realized that it so aptly fit the Holmes boys that I was stunned. They are, probably, the most powerful people in Britain thanks to their minds and completely untouchable until they met certain people. For those that want to see Mycroft and Sherlock working together like the bad-ass team they are, this is definitely for you.


End file.
